Peter Temple: Black Tide

Justice for Brendan.

But.

In a world of perfect justice, would Brendan walk free?

Absolutely not. In such a world, the naked Brendan would be dragged from his round waterbed, subjected to ritual humiliation, then thrown face forward into a pit of starving hyenas. Too extreme? What of the ideal of rehabilitation? Certainly Brendan was capable of changing. He could be permanently changed, perhaps into rose fertiliser, a kilo and a bit of blood and bone.

At peace for the moment, I walked the fifty paces to Taub’s Cabinetmaking, down the narrow lane that ran to Smith Street, Collingwood.

I opened the battered door, stood for a moment. The smell of the workshop: wood shavings, linseed oil, Charlie’s Cuban cheroots, coffee. Charlie was at the back of the large space, opening and closing the raised-panel door of a narrow, elegant rosewood cupboard. Joints, doors, drawers. For Charlie, it was pistonfit or nothing.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw me coming. ‘So,’ he said without looking at me. ‘Man who finds the scum of the earth. Man who breaks his parents’ hearts. Horses and criminals. That’s his life.’

‘It’s too late for him to break his parents’ hearts,’ I said. ‘And sometimes the criminals are on the horses. That door fits.’

Charlie closed the cupboard door, opened it a fraction, closed it. ‘An old man,’ he said, ‘should be retired. But no, he goes on, teaches something to this person who won’t go away, this nuisance person. What thanks does the old man get?’

I walked around to look at the back of the cupboard. The back of a Charlie Taub piece, destined to be seen only by removalists, was treated the same way as a violinmaker treats the bottom of the violin. ‘Let me guess,’ I said. ‘Bugger all?’

‘Those who hear not the voice of the conscience,’ Charlie said. ‘Those are the truly deaf. Karl Bernsdorf. He said that. A great man.’

I said, ‘I quote him all the time. Maybe they could train a conscience dog for handicapped people like me. You even think about not behaving well, the dog nudges your leg.’

Charlie made his snorting noise. ‘Nudges? Pisses on it. Eat your leg off, right up to the hip even, won’t help.’

I came around to look at the severe pediment. ‘I gather you missed me a lot then?’

Another snort. ‘What I miss, I miss someone finishes little jobs I give him. Like little tables. Day’s work for a man who actually works.’

‘Finished tomorrow,’ I said. ‘Good as done. Now, time for a beer.’

Getting Charlie out the front door took me another ten minutes. He was quite unable to end the working day without going around touching, fiddling with, and testing the work in progress. Left alone, this could amount to half an hour of shuffling, muttering and whistling.

Outside, the coming winter was in the polluted air, the cold sharpening the smell of the hydrocarbons. We walked to the Prince of Prussia, Charlie telling me about his latest bowls triumph.

‘Youngsters,’ he said. ‘We draw to play these junge. They think, old buggers, goodbye. I say to Freddie Chan, he thinks we got no chance, “Freddie, I say, what do these pishers know about skill? Nothing, that’s what.’’ He doesn’t believe. Well. Next thing, the little fat boy and the other one, the chemist. Mr Pills. In the gutter. You follow?’

‘Every word.’ We were walking past the old chutney factory. A yellow Porsche and a huge four-wheel-drive were parked on the pavement. Two men, one shaven-headed, the other with a ponytail, were talking in the open doorway. You could smell the sweet, vinegary smell of the long-gone chutney barrels.

‘The pricks like the industrial look,’ the man with the pigtail said to shaven-head as we came abreast. ‘Some paint, some plumbing, don’t even have to hide the fucking pipes.’

‘So where am I lying?’ said Charlie. ‘So close, a veneer you can’t get it in between. That’s where I am and that’s the end of these smart boys. Freddie, he can’t believe it. He says to me, “Charlie, you’re a master.’’’

‘Toothless whip ruthless,’ I said. ‘These pishers, how old are they, more or less?’

Charlie shrugged, waved a huge hand. ‘Sixty, sixty-five, there around.’

‘Pishers,’ I said. ‘They should have a junior league for them.’

The Prince was its usual vibrant, cutting-edge-of-the- hospitality-industry self. Stan, the publican, was at the far end of the bar reading a paperback called Desperado: Success Secrets of the New Small-Business Bandidos. At the counter, the men Charlie called the Fitzroy Youth Club, Wilbur Ong, Norm O’Neill and Eric Tanner-all men who were shaving when Fitzroy won the 1944 Grand Final-were reflecting on past injustices. Next to them, Wally Pollard, retired tram driver, was talking bowls with a man called Alec Leach. Three other men were seated at a table in the corner studying the racing pages of the Herald Sun. Under the window, two thirtyish women, serious-looking, short hair, business clothes, were studying what looked like proof copies of the telephone directory.

Charlie veered off to join the bowls talk. I sat down next to Wilbur Ong.

‘Bloody disgrace,’ said Norm O’Neill, huge nose pointed roofwards under the peak of his flat cap. ‘Rot set in, there and then. Bastards never give us a fair go years after that.’

Eric Tanner caught sight of me. ‘Jack,’ he said. ‘You ever hear about that ’49 scandal?’

‘Not that I can recall,’ I said.

‘Three goals in front, five minutes to go. Two of these Tiger girls get in front of Bill. He’s taken to the air, you understand, big leap. Bill had a big leap, not the biggest but big. Big enough for this lot certainly. Anyway, he’s up there, reachin, and these pussycats they’re buggerin about and they end up bangin their heads together, altogether accidental. One wobbles around whinin, the other, he’s an actor, he falls over, they have to help him off. Crebbin, that’s his name. Umpire gives the Tigers a free. Well, a few of our fellas get around him, give him a few words, next thing the kick’s bein taken plumb in front.’

‘First of three,’ said Wilbur Ong.

‘Three frees in a row,’ Eric said. ‘Roy puts a hand on these sheilas, they get a kick. Win by a point.’

‘The next week…’ said Norm O’Neill.

‘I’m tellin this story,’ said Eric. ‘The next week this actor Crebbin that got the little knock on the head, he gets married. Nice-lookin girl from the picture in the paper. And who d’ya think’s standing next to her at the altar, givin her away?’

‘Could it be her father?’

‘Her bloody father. And who’s her bloody father?’

‘Surely not?’

‘Too bloody true. The bloody ump give the game to the Tigers. How d’ya like that?’

‘Not at all,’ I said. ‘Not at all.’

Stan put down his paperback and came over, scratching the surviving corkscrew hairs on his head. ‘You bin scarce,’ he said.

‘Duty called,’ I said. ‘Been out there saving a man from a cruel miscarriage of justice.’

‘Don’t have to go out. Save a man from a cruel bloody miscarriage of justice right here,’ said Stan. ‘You’re the old man’s lawyer, talk him into sellin this dump, save me wastin my whole life listenin to old farts goin on about dead footy players.’

Stan’s father, Morris, owned the pub and, at 87, showed no interest in selling it.

‘Find a suitable buyer and I’ll think about it,’ I said and ordered a round.

Stan was at the tap, drawing beers without looking, when he said loudly, ‘Speakin of dead footy players, had a bloke in here this mornin, wants to buy the pictures.’

All talk stopped.

‘The pictures?’ said Wilbur Ong. ‘What pictures?’